


A Soapy Scene

by jat_sapphire



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode: s04e22 Sweet Revenge, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: A post-tag tag for Sweet Revenge.  Originally printed in the 2018 SHareCon zine.





	A Soapy Scene

Dobey left first. He mumbled something about paperwork, trying to grumble, but his eyes were unmistakably fond. After patting Starsky's shoulder, he left his hand there and cleared his throat. “Edith'll bring Cal and Rosie tomorrow, after school's out. Wanted to wait until … well, …. Rosie's so young.”

Starsky smiled, nodded. “Not getting' rid of me, Cap. I'm gonna be front row at her graduation. _College_ graduation.”

Nodding back, Dobey's grip tightened, then let go. “Don't lie 'round here too long, got work for you.” He cleared his throat. “Good night.” 

They watched him go. Then Huggy shook himself a little. “Well, my brothers, my fine restaurant does not run itself.”

“Must be a real dip in the revenue,” Hutch said, the same laugh under his voice he'd felt there his whole visit, all day, since he saw Starsky's eyes slit open and heard his voice garbled around the ventilator. “Not having this bottomless pit sucking up hamburgers every day.”

“We manage,” Huggy said with dignity, as if he were the one being teased. “Not that I'm not—” He moved his shoulders and clearly just gave up on that sentence. Hauling his long body out of the plastic hospital chair, he looked down at Starsky, then over at Hutch. “You two—” Shook his head. “Ah, man, just good to see you—” he held out his hand, and Starsky grasped his wrist, getting a hard grip in return as Huggy went on, “good to see you _breathin'_ , Starsky. You keep that up.” Their grip shifted, then again, a longer dap than usual: clapping palms, fingertips locking, backs of hands, palms flat, gripping each other's thumbs, one last slap. Then with another fast but intense glance to Hutch's watching face, Huggy said, “You bring my chafing dish back, too, Hutch, when you're done wearin' the cover on your empty blond head.”

“Promise.” Hutch tilted the cover back and shook Huggy's hand, just an ordinary white-boy shake but five or six pumps, not the usual two or three.

“Sleep tight.” Huggy grinned, winked, then was out the door.

Starsky yawned on cue, his hands on the edge of the dish on his lap. “These leg things are diggin' in, Hutch. Can you reach—”

“Sure, buddy,” and Hutch sat up, a little awkwardly, grabbed one handle and then the other, lifted the dish to his own lap and then swung one foot to the floor. 

Just before Hutch stood, Starsky grabbed a handful of his jacket. “Don't leave, though.”

Hutch smiled. “No, okay,” and Starsky let go.

There was hardly enough room on the bedside cabinet for the dish, so Hutch shifted stuff around, clock on top of menu, call button on kleenex, barf dish on clock, and then could find space. He put the cover on, too. Looking over his shoulder, he reached back to pull the chair closer, but Starsky said, “Hey, no. Come back,” and patted the bed where Hutch had been.

Willing—no, eager—he walked back around the foot of the bed, but pointed out, “Gonna throw me out in a couple minutes anyway, must be after hours.” He smiled again, couldn't help it.

“Like I care. Get in. I got something to say.”

Hutch's eyebrows went up. This time, instead of flopping down on his back, he turned on his side, on one elbow, his other hand settling on the middle of Starsky's bandages. His mustache twisted a little, the way nerves always moved it, but looking in his partner's eyes made him smile once more. “Neck'll be stiff unless you put your head down,” and he sat back up, pulling one knee around, to ease Starsky farther into the bed so he could put his head on the pillow.

Starsky grinned up. “You're a great nurse, babe.” One of Hutch's hands cupped the back of Starsky's neck; the other was back on the bandages, and when Starsky said, “You wanna be the one to give my sponge bath?” both hands jerked a little. Starsky covered and rubbed the hand on his sternum, comforting in his turn. “I'll take what I can get.” His left hand touched the corner of Hutch's mouth, which opened to speak the helpless truth. 

“Take anything, Starsk. Take everything.”

The miraculous, living fingers stroked up Hutch's cheek, to his sideburn. “Thought so. C'mere, then.”

Hutch bent down with the inevitability of gravity, of the tide coming in. Starsky's hand in his hair, his breath on Hutch's face, his lips parting, their tongues meeting, the little gasps they both gave, Starsky pushing up and Hutch down, felt as if they weren't kissing so much as merging. Hutch closed his eyes and knew his lashes were wet. Starsky gripped the leather sleeve, then the collar. They toyed with each other's lips, licked, dived in deep. Their teeth clacked. They pulled back. It was sweet and chaste again, then deep and wet and dirty. Starsky started panting, and when Hutch realized, that was the end of it. He sat back up, but put both hands on Starsky's face and hung over him. Neither could get enough of diving into this gaze, searching and finding... “The look of love,” Hutch murmured, just barely not singing it.

“I want this forever.”

“A hundred and forty years,” Hutch answered as fervently as if he were under oath. This _was_ his oath.

Starsky nodded, eyebrows up, his whole face full of light. “Every second.”

His voice soapy-scene tender even to his own ears, Hutch didn't even try to stop. “We moving in together, then?”

But Starsky didn't seem to mind. “Absolutely.” His smile dimmed a little, though, as he went on, “We'll need a ground floor place.”

“I'll find one.”

“Give you somethin' else to do while I'm stuck here. No more busting whackos while I'm not there backin' you up.”

Putting his forehead on Starsky's, Hutch promised, “They leave you alone, I'll leave them alone.” He couldn't help but kiss again. This time it was gentle, and he could feel Starsky's fatigue. In fact, when he pulled back, Starsky yawned again.

“I wanna hug you so tight, lie on top of you, see you really sleep,” he said, but by the end of the sentence, he was mumbling.

“And I want to scoop you up and just take you home, but—” Hutch took a deep breath. “Yeah. Can't.” He sighed again, sat up, got off the bed. “Can't really even stay. I gotta behave so they don't keep me out.”

Starsky grabbed again, his hand this time. “Oh, yeah, don't get in trouble with these nurses here, they're like the Cabrillo guards. Tomorrow.”

Hutch had to loosen his grip deliberately, one finger at a time, and then before he could really let go he kissed the knuckles. Yeah, he had it bad.

But Starsky laid those knuckles on his own lips, so he was in just as deep.

“Tomorrow,” Hutch repeated and fled.

He was in the parking structure already when he realized that he didn't have that damn chafing dish, and he didn't know his blood alcohol, so he shouldn't drive. Soapy scenes. Bad for the brain. He went back to the elevator, punched the lobby button, then touched his chest, smiling.

Good for the heart, though.


End file.
